The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories (8 page)

I miss New Hampshire, Laura. Real trees and fish and hammock chairs. How’s the city? Have you seen Shakespeare in the Park yet? I tried to explain this to Haaya by comparing it to pre-Ottoman mosques. I wish you’d tell me more in your messages. Hearing from you really breaks up my day.

—Will

* * *

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
Aug 2, 2003 at 1:11 AM

Subject:
hello

We got news from outside today. (A CPA officer got authorized to meet with an imam who couldn’t come inside the Zone.) He was walking down a crowded sidewalk in the central city when an old man carrying two bags of groceries was accosted by a young guy, demanding his food and money at knife-point. Pedestrians stopped to watch, regarding the interaction with normalcy. The old man reached into his pocket, but instead of withdrawing his wallet, he took out his gun, switched off the safety, and shot the man straight in the chest. Some of the pedestrians cheered, others spat, and the old man picked up his groceries and continued home. There’s Iraq for you.

Haaya suggested we work separately today. I had office work to do and she wanted to speak to some men in the slums outside the new housing. I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea, but she insisted. I’ve been a mess all day—distracted, exhausted (writing e-mails when I should be working). I suppose I’ve come to rely on her more than I thought.

I know it’s been a while since I’ve written, but I did get your other messages and I’m sorry I didn’t respond sooner. It’s hard to turn my thoughts into words these days. (For once you don’t have to forgive me my poetic verbosity.) But the beauty of this place is haunting me now. The date palms bloomed and everything seems overgrown and excessively lush. No one’s been contracted to trim the palace gardens or wildflowers, so the greens by the blast walls and rivers are (beautifully) unkempt. But we hear firefights now. Firefights and sirens and tiny pops from the city. The city I’ve lived in for months but never really seen.

How’s work?

* * *

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
Aug 10, 2003 at 12:35 AM

Subject:
hi!

Laura,

Again, sorry it’s been so long. My work is starting to consume me and when Haaya and I aren’t in the office, we’re usually asleep. Finding these moments alone with my laptop is getting harder.

Mostly I’ve been distracted by the news on the Sunnis. The buzz about the massacres is all over the Zone. It’s practically common knowledge that Iraqi police forces are behind the operations—but the CPA is still unwilling to acknowledge that the men they’re training are doubling as Mahdi executioners at night. I spent three evenings in a row combing newspapers, but not even the liberals are editorializing about it yet. Haaya thinks the CPA simply doesn’t give a shit. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.

Personally, that mindset disgusts me. We have the GIs patrolling, we just need to start stationing them at checkpoints so trucks full of civilians don’t get carted off and shot in the mountains. It’s not that hard!!! We’re talking about sixty people a week, Laura! This isn’t some token shooting or car bomb.

There’s this man who’s started standing outside the palace every day. An old guy, leathered and yellow eyed. He barrages the staff as we walk up the marble steps, screaming for his dead Sunni family and praying in desperate repetitions. Everyone in the office calls him the “crazy sheikh,” but no one seems to know whose department is responsible for dealing with it. We just walk by. Walk by with our bush hats and M-9’s to push paper in this damn castle.

Haaya and I have been trying to gather some information when we do our housing rounds. We figure if we can get enough legitimate sources maybe someone in the press corps will pick it up and do a story. According to a woman in the market, the Mahdis are starting to take children. Now I picture a kid’s head getting blown off every time I hear one of the tiny pops outside the walls. I didn’t come here for this, Laura. I thought I’d be making a contribution. I thought I’d be helping the world, not ignoring it.

I’m exhausted. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to write something beautiful for you. I bet New York’s a dream right now. August was always my favorite month in the city.

Hang in there. Will

* * *

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
Aug 16, 2003 at 1:06 AM

Subject:
delete this when you’re done

I’m sending this to you from my childhood address—as the CPA can read our company accounts.

I have news. Haaya has a plan to curb the district targeting of Sunnis but it’s not exactly on policy (hence soccerstar73). When we worked alone last week, she met a slum man who got talking about the Mahdis. He knew about the massacres—
and claimed to know about the men. When she came back around sunset, she seemed obsessed with the man; the smoothness of his voice, the green of his eyes. He told her they couldn’t talk on the street and brought her into the back room of a café on Yafa. (There’s no denying her nerve.)

She told me he knows about art, about music, about the irony of the architecture gilding the walls. A university man living in the slums was suspicious to me, but to Haaya, he was a martyr. They ate mangoes and talked every day for five days. Each day I insisted on coming and each day she forbade me to come. (She was trying to gain his confidence, his Arabic was too thick to translate, a foreigner could give “the wrong impression.”) I was suspicious, but I trust Haaya, and Haaya trusts him. Apparently, he knows which men in the Iraqi army are involved with the Mahdis. Apparently, he could make a list of them if he had to. A list, Haaya repeated to me as we stretched out beneath our fruit trees. Trust me, she said. Trust me.

I had to. Haaya knows the language and the culture better than I do and we’re talking about ten to twenty casualties per night. The deal is this: he wants In-Zone housing for his extended family—the waitlists are huge and even so, he doesn’t think they’ll pass the background check. Haaya paused when she told me this next part—making sure I was looking in her eyes. His brother used to be affiliated with Al Qaeda—but after 9/11 he pulled back to pockets of moderate Islamists, shameful, confused, and scared shitless. Ta’ib, Ta’ib, he repeated. Reform, Reform, my brother’s reformed. I imagine Haaya has sympathy for such men. (Her own father retreated from the Iraqi Ba’ath party during the First Gulf War.)

CPA policy obviously forbids Al Qaeda affiliates (reformed or not) from setting up shop inside the Green Zone Walls—let alone cutting the line of hundreds of translators, embassy workers, journalists, and doctors. Haaya talked of utilitarianism during her pitch. Talked of saving hundreds of Sunni lives, expediting withdrawal, reforming the districts and Iraqi police from within. How many names, I kept repeating. (More for myself than to hear the answer.) Fifty names. Fifty undercover Mahdi names. I counted fifty men, one by one, as they took form, lining the Helipad’s east rim. Then I counted fifty men marching to the overnight base, packed inside the inflated dome where they’d sweat through their camo and write home to their moms.

I agreed to do it. My department runs the files on
backgrounds and waitlists, and, well, I run my department. Mr. Abdul Aziz Makin will hand Haaya a list of fifty names, which we’ll verify before returning with his residency papers. I’m nervous, Laura. But if this works, we have the potential to save thousands of lives. Besides, practically every Shi’a in Baghdad has some sort of former affiliation with Al Qaeda, so it’s not like we’re actually making some huge
exception here. Every time I hear a gunshot from the city I’m more and more assured that this is the right thing to do. Once we clear the Mahdis out of the police, we might finally be able to make some progress in this wasteland.

I’ve started praying. I’m sure your raging atheism finds this amusing. It’s something about this place. The flowers, the marble, the people who don’t go more than four hours without stretching towards Mecca. I don’t know what God my mind keeps consulting—but I’m hoping it’s one who doesn’t believe in Jihad.

I still think of you. I know I seem distracted, but it’s true. I don’t know why you haven’t written me in a while, Laura, but I’m guessing you’re probably just busy with work or your friends. Let me know how you are.

Your lost soldier CPA officer,

W

* * *

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
Aug 23, 2003 at 1:25 AM

Subject:
delete when done

Laura! I don’t want to jinx it but (miraculously) things seem to have worked. We verified the names and the Makins are moving in Monday. Haaya and I are meeting in an hour to decide how to present the list to Bremer and the In-Zone GI unit. Keep your eyes peeled on the papers. This could break soon.

Will

* * *

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
Aug 27, 2003 at 2:14 PM

Subject:
the attack

I’m fine. Turn off the coverage—I don’t want you panicking.
The Green Zone’s been mortared and the Rashid Hotel might collapse under the weight. The first car bomb is
linked to the new housing unit and they’re calling me in for
questioning. Wolf’s dead.

I’m freaking out, Laura. If this traces back to our guy it could be bad. I’m just hoping to God that car belonged to some other fucker in the complex. I don’t know how I’d live with myself.

Might not be able to write for a while. Delete this.

Will

* * *

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
Aug 31, 2003 at 2:56 AM

Subject:
the attack

Laura,

Haaya wants to leave right now but I told her I needed to do this. I owe you that much. I know it’s tactless to do it like this, but there isn’t much time so I’m just going to explain everything. They linked the attack to Abdul Aziz and his brother, traced back his authorization papers and found the holes. We explained about the names but it didn’t matter—he had the goddamn President on conference. The attack was bad. I’m sure you read about it. Three projectiles to the hotel high-rise and five strategic car bombs in forty-five minutes. The city riots didn’t start until the Chinook helicopter got shot down and we lost the Black Hawk. This war is fucked. It’s like the country is unraveling from the inside. A bomb aimed at the helipad fell 100m short—falling on the orange groves behind the palace. Unlike the palms, the trees ignited, burning our orchard to the ground and sending citrus smoke through the city.

They’re kicking us out. Bremer’s giving us two days and our flights leave tomorrow. They didn’t explain much but it might be conspiring, if we’re lucky just negligence. Either way, we’re looking at twenty years minimum. At least they’re respecting our dignity with the two days—that and not trailing us with guards until then.

Laura, there’s a lot I need to tell you. Haaya and I have made our decision. We’re going to leave. An explosion left a hole in the blast wall on the southwest bank that she doesn’t think the CPA’s noticed yet. If we can get through that, and across the Tigris, she thinks we’ll be able to make it to Syria and into the East where she has family. Either way, the walls are closing, and I’d rather be in the desert than a metal box.

The whole Zone’s heard it’s the “housing guy’s fault.” I ran into Michael on the boulevard and he just shook his head.
He muttered some bullshit about my Arab girlfriend. He said he thought I was against the war glory stuff. Thought I was better than wanting 50 Mahdis to my name. I didn’t even know what to say. It’s like something disgusting is rotting in my stomach and I can’t get it out. These people are dead because of me. WOLF is dead because of me. I can’t stop thinking about the last time I saw him—reading a comic book in the mess hall and offering me the rest of his cantaloupe. I buried the book he lent me by the date plum trees; it’s not much, but at least it’s something. He was a fucking kid. 23 years old for God’s sake.

Haaya tried to take full blame for it—but Bremer was having none of it. He’s right. I agreed. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I don’t know why it matters so much to me, but I want you to know that our intentions were always in the right place. If anything happens to us, at least know that.

Laura, I don’t know why you haven’t written in a while. I don’t even remember when your messages stopped. After the 4th of July? The first attack? I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I know you’re listening, at least, and there’s something in that. I need for you to forgive me. Forgive me for what I did and for what I’m going to do. I can’t explain why it matters so much to me, but it does. You were my tether outside these walls, Laura. Always know that.

Haaya and I are going to try to start over. She wants me to pray more—maybe even five times a day. She says the land in the East is barely patrolled, barely settled. And in a few years, I’m sure they’ll forget about a CPA fuckup and his translator anyway. Haaya has a headscarf now and
she told me to put on dishdasha robes. We’ll live with her family for a time. They’re farming people, pulling whatever they can from the desert dust.

I’m going to see the world, Laura. I’m finally getting out of this damn garden.

Take care of yourself,

Will

Baggage Claim

K
yle dry-swallowed two aspirin as he entered the warehouse. It reminded him of a Walmart, only larger and more fluorescent. Mellow music hovered over the chatter that only 20 to 30 percent off could possibly inspire. It wasn’t his idea to go to the Unclaimed Baggage Center, or, as the women in the matching red polos at the door said, “The Lost Luggage Capital of the World.” The building boasted a solid fifty thousand square feet and stretched out like a giant cinder block, awkwardly planted on an island of asphalt in the middle of rural Scottsboro. Bridget had charted this visit into their itinerary long before they had left for Alabama and Kyle had decided he wouldn’t like it long before they arrived.

* * *

“Did you know,” she had said in the car, “that over one million lost bags come through there every year?” He grunted and looked back at the map. “It says here that one man found an original Salvador Dalí print in an old suitcase.” He wondered if she had planned their vacation so he’d finally propose. Wondered if she could sense the ring he had hidden in the cloth in the box in his Dopp kit in the second-smallest pocket of his backpack. Wondered why this somehow annoyed him, and why after all this time
she
somehow annoyed him. The way the foam collected on the corners of her mouth when she brushed her teeth, the way her clothes were always folded in squares, the way she eyed him when he didn’t eat his green beans. He didn’t bother asking what an “original” print was. Instead he faked a smile, squeezed her arm, and turned off at Exit 62.

* * *

Bridget stared up at the aisle signs hanging from the warehouse ceiling. “The deals here are going to be unbelievable.” She did a semicircle, stopping in front of him so their noses nearly touched. “I’m going to go look at those scarves.” She kissed him lightly and he noticed her cheeks were sunburned. Kyle nodded as she hurried toward a rack.

Despite the aspirin, a dull headache began to settle in on him. Supermarkets had the same effect—a type of pressure from the plaster above and the linoleum below. He moved down the aisle and emerged in front of a display of digital cameras. Atop the stack was a white-and-red sign proclaiming that
ALL PREVIOUS PICTURES HAVE BEEN DELETED FROM THE CAMERAS
,
and below it was a yellow tag reading
TWO-FOR-ONE SPECIAL
!
Kyle wondered whose job it was to erase the memories from someone else’s life. Some young guy who spent his days flipping through the pictures of an Indian couple at a ski resort or a family vacationing in Buenos Aires, monotonously deleting them one after another, perhaps pondering his own means of escaping Scottsboro, Alabama, and his job at its main attraction. It reminded him of a horror movie he had watched with Bridget on one of their first dates. A man received an eye transplant and began to see things from the donor’s life. These cameras, he decided, must function exactly like that.

Kyle was reminded of an arena as he wove through the stacks of aged leather cases, brand-new suits, and souvenirs from Taiwan, past ski boots and rain boots and a glass case full of watches. After a moment, he set out down an aisle of women’s bathing suits. He imagined tired employees marking and cleaning an endless supply of swimwear. Another tropical vacation, they would say as they unzipped a flap, another pair of flip-flops. The concept somehow repulsed him. Ninety days didn’t seem long enough to give up hope and sell someone’s belongings. He walked past an elderly woman and examined a floral bikini. He imagined Bridget standing hopelessly by an empty conveyor belt, robbed of her own possessions. He imagined himself comforting her and assuring her they’d find it eventually. The girl who lost the floral bikini had probably thrown a fit, but Bridget would have been calm, forgiving, and it would have driven him crazy.

“There you are!” She came out from behind a rack of golf clubs. “I think I’m going to buy this shawl.” Bridget pulled an antique-looking cloth around her shoulders and pointed her face up in a pose. “What do you think?”

“It’s nice.”

“Are you thinking of getting a new digital camera?” She folded the shawl back up and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Look, it’s two for one.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I’m going to go buy this before I change my mind,” she said as she shifted her brown purse higher up on her shoulder and walked to the left, “but I’ll come find you in a minute.”

“Hey, Bridget.” He didn’t know what prompted him to say it. She stopped and turned around, her brown ponytail swinging to her left shoulder. Kyle opened his mouth, then shut it. “Uh, did you know that some guy once found an original Salvador Dalí print in here?”

“Yeah, I did,” she said sharply, but he could see her roll her eyes and grin as she turned back toward the register.

Kyle looked up at the fluorescent lights and listened as their hum mixed with the distant music. She knows, he thought. She must have found it in the hotel. Kyle placed his backpack on a pile of black duffels and followed behind her. It wasn’t until they were back in the parking lot that he decided to run inside and buy it back for $4.99.